"Upon my lips the breath of song, Within my heart a rhyme, Howe'er time trips or lags along, I keep abreast with time!"

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Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

— John Keats